The field is silent where the donkey brayed and the tumbledown hippy house is even more tumbled down, the cliff top graveyard topples and clings. Beside the abandoned bus garage doors the rusted bones of the petrol pump; the crumbling façade of the bookshop hides tiers of bursting shelves falling down stone rooms of time into a world of words and rhyme.

Poetry bubbles from river and sea, out of the semi-submersible grass; cliffs red painted by times slow shift open their throats to a poet’s kiss with songs of my youth, and songs of his prime over shimmering sands from Laugharne to Pendine, knowing the gulls on the crystal circle of sky have all the discarded words in their beaks to drop on the passers-by.